hot mess
by paradises
Summary: You're a hot mess, and I'm falling for you / or, the tales of how you have to be in love for there to be a love story; For the lovely Vicky, Steering The Stars / .:August '13 Fic Exchange:.


**sum: You have a very lovely skull, did you know that? —KristenDerrick. For Vicky, August '13 Fic Exchange.**

**a/n: **This is for the **August '13 fic exchange. **This is sort of an odd concept, but I've read about in a lot of fanfictions and books —especially in the Austin&Ally or the Kickin' It fandom, so I decided to put a different twist to it. There aren't really that many Kristen fics in the Clique fandom, so I thought that I might as well contribute to that, along with writing something suckish; I don't exactly hardcore _ship _Kristen/Derrick, but they could work. Hope you like this, :)

**dedication: **to Vicky (the pink dove).  
**prompts: **paris, cinnamon, double dutch, "that's what makes you beautiful".

**hot mess**  
kristen/derrick

"_from the very beginning— from the first moment, i may almost say— of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and i had not known you a month before i felt that you were the last man in the world whom i could ever be prevailed on to marry."_

— **pride and prejudice**; jane austen

.

Fake boyfriends, according to Kristen Gregory, are the _best._

After all, they never do anything wrong, and are created by pure imagination and the resources of knowing what they should look like, act like, up to the specific details of how you meet him _–_ thanks to the brilliance of such television shows and dramatic books that weren't too far off the realities of real life. It's when she's in the back of a royal blue minivan that she composes the lie _– his _name is Erik Williams _– and he plays golf, he lived in Paris, _he's sweet and kind, and everything that Kristen's ever hoped for in a guy.

And for some odd reason or another, her friends believe her.

.

.

_I'm Kristen Gregory, and I'm fabulous, _she reminds herself, constantly, like a mantra or prayer.

The day spins away _– _rolls and spins of tops entertaining low attention spans, and Kristen feels so above it all with those Calvin Klein sunglasses shielding her sky blue eyes, stomach held in as the lady at the front desk tells her that she's going to do perfectly in high school. Another girl is in the store, but she's a ragabond, with scraggly chopped brown hair and hairy legs covered by black athletic shorts and oversized sneakers, a look that can only be pulled off successfully by any _guy._

Her mother stops her by the door, and places pressure on her upper arm. "Why didn't you say thank you?" Kristen mumbles an _IdidIdid _but it doesn't really matter. "It's just good manners to say thank you, now what about that? You're going to end up on the streets without a job at this rate." She feels sort of disapointed in herself, but after the millions of times that Mrs. Gregory has told her to do something differently, Kristen's kind of gotten this numb reaction to the words.

Kristen walks away from _Music and Arts _slowly, throwing a few pebbles with the front of her newest Mary Janes and though she's got the same Calvin Klein sunglasses she had earlier, and that adorable polka dot navy blue Abercrombie skirt with the white lace top tucked in, she doesn't feel so fabulous. "Don't you dare give me that attitude, young lady," Mrs. Gregory orders from the front seat. Kristen doesn't give a reply, and moves to the back seat —as soon as they reach their home, she calmly strides through the doors of mint and jade, and for once, she doesn't stop to smell the Kristens on the way up.

As soon as Kristen's in her room, there's a slight breakdown. It's not a full-out one, because there really aren't that many tears left in her dry self to spill; nevertheless, Kristen takes off the sunglasses and begins itching her face, like a rash. It's her fault, too, she realizes as she's not exactly an angel. She pulls herself up to the computer, wincing as she yanks off the bandages covering her lower and upper legs and wondering what she had done to deserve this; then again, Kristen was a horrible sort of person, the worst that she had ever known.

.

The first time she is introduced to the real world, it pops her bubble of innocence.

She's sitting in the middle of a Jewel's parking lot, waiting for her mother and fifteen year old cousin, Ali, to return back into the old fashioned Toyota Camry when it happens. Kristen is mindlessly tapping onto the brightened screen of a technological device with the lyrics of _O__ne More Night _pounding in her ears through a pair of fluorescent crimson earphones. Her father has opened the video against her approval, and she angrily swats away the flies that crowd around her Hermès messenger bag, a birthday gift.

While looking out the window, she spots a lanky boy _– _the stereotype with the bright green tee and a pair of snug shorts, rugged sneakers having stepped in countless piles of muds, dark hair unruly around the front. He walks towards the sleek Mercedes, a silver vehicle that _definitely _does not belong to him, and reaches into the purses and bags that have been left, in a carefree, unsuspecting manner. Reaching for the wallets, and passing them back into rough, callused hands of his comrades behind him, the group runs from the parking lot, and into one of the alleys. Kristen quickly locks the car doors and rolls up the tinted windows, wondering what on Earth had just occurred, but ignores it.

Two days later, she's watching the news, the Chicago daily reports. "And, there have been reports _– _reports of a group of unnamed boys stealing valuables from a silver Mercedes Benz," the bald man reports, putting down the papers for the night and signing off with a signature smile.

.

He takes her to this convention _– _some center for Science of Spirituality, and from the moment Kristen walks in she knows that something she did, or maybe everything, is wrong. There are crowds of saris and dupattas surrounding her, with the strong smell of cinnamon clogging her nostrils. but she refrains from tugging on Derrick's sleeves when she notices him gladly greeting all of the individuals.

Kristen assumes that the majority of the individuals here are only for socializing purposes.

As he tells her later, this is the breeding ground for arranged marriages _– scandalous _love marriages aren't for people like these _– _and she aims to try to forget everything. Omniscient ceruleans bore into swirling hazels, sand hastily flung throughout the scene, short stubs of grass weaving throughout the mahogany flooring, few words spoken though beaming whites confirm.

.

She's got Derrick against a wall, and amidst the frantic kissing and the lulling of sweet nothings whispered into blushing ears, she wonders why she had never thought of this in the first place. It's not right, it's definitely not something that anybody else would understand, which is why it's only reserved for times when they feel lonely and reaching out like this is the only way to solve their problems.

Absorbing themselves in something that's just _wrongwrongwrong _releases them from harsh bites of reality, reminding them that their lives will always be wrong and no amount of kisses and bandages can repiece the future, which is only now a misted madness, swirling off the edge of a cliff until they will chase after it, crumbling over the edge and breaking like china.

So, Kristen clings to Derrick as though he is her lifeline, because in a way, she feels as though she would be safe in his arms if only things were different, if the situations arised were different, but that's a mention for another day, and right now all she cares about is escaping. There are still reminders that the world could never be picturesque for either of them—

(When she knows that he's got multiple girls wrapped around his fingers, and why would he choose _vanilla Kristen _when he could have Rocky Road Claire, or Strawberry Heather, or Cookies and Cream; the flavors are endless.)

Deciding to give this up is not the easy way out, because everybody knows that Kristen has always loved to pretend. When she was little, she would pretend to be a princess and her mother would be the queen, her father the king, and everything was in its rightful place in the kingdom; now, balance could never be restored. The reign of Princess Kristen was long past; no traces of that previous child was left, the golden ringlets replaced with snark, hidden under layers of sensibility.

Long live the days of happiness.

She's really _falling – _the cliff has been gone miles past, and ivory fingernails cling onto brittle rocks, chipping away at thin air until the cushions fall apart beneath her and all that there is left are the rocks beneath, welcoming enough. They are hard, and she crashes upon the shore with invisible heartbeat, arms splayed above pasty skin, reaching for a handhold, but it's all been a trick, it's all fake like this painted picture of everlasting immortality.

Kristen just wants to be five again, but the world has somehow shifted; all at once, everything is different and the previous realm of spinning the day away through failed attempts at social lives, sipping cocoa like the perfect fifteen year old cousin Ali, playing double dutch _– it's all gone._

Nobody bothers to hear her screams, but they never have been there, so why should they come now?

.

She spends hours on the thread count mattress, just lying there with strawberries and cherries lining the cover of her mouth; Kristen glances out the window of the Montador Apartment building and wonders if everything could be much simpler. It just couldn't be, though; that was the hardest part of growing up, and this eventual feeling because she knows that at one point or another, Kristen's going to have to let go and learn to move on in life. Just not now, though.

Glass is shattering everywhere, and a red-streaked sky stains her vision bloody crimson _– all she sees is_ him. Sometimes she sits in front of a computer, just watching the screen numbly and she knows that she should be doing something else, anything else, but it just feels too freaking good, almost like a dream, just sitting there. It's almost as if she's in this transition stage; she doesn't want to grow up, she doesn't want to die, she just wants to live this dream life for one more day before everything comes crashing down, because everybody knows that you have to wake up from your dreams.

There's a bowl of green grapes, fresh and plump ones that aren't rotten from all the time spent in packaging, and minutes later, replaced by a fresh carton of vanilla and strawberry ice cream, mixed together in spiraling swirls; by the end of the hour, the trash can is full of wrappers and the dishwasher is full and loaded.

Her blonde hair hangs limply and the diamond necklace is already fallen to the ground, the overly polished floor and the slips of the knees causing falling flat on a misformed face; something tells her that what she's doing is _wrongwrongwrong_ but it's just the most right and real thing that she's ever felt. It's the only way to get rid of everything bad, to rinse herself, quite literally. Nobody could know about this, this warmth that came with the secret remedy because they would take it away from her, and she couldn't imagine living without it.

_Kristen, are you still in there?_

She gently retrieves two manicured fingers out of her ruby red lips, face turning towards the direction of the flimsy stall door, unaware of a mollifying answer. _One minute, _she replies, though it will never truly be one minute, though. Hurriedly knocking over a few plastic blood-red cups, Kristen smooths down the ruffles of her dress, pulls it slightly higher before adjusting her facial makeup, and walks outside, the epitome of casual chic.

"Hey, Kris?" She looks up into the familiar face of her boyfriend, who looks just the least bit sweaty as of he's had a panic attack, then scrunches his nose. "What's that smell?" Derrick's looking towards the bathroom stall.

_Definitely not a combination of freshly rid puke and quickly applied perfume sprays._

They are clenching hands, and their sweaty palms are not the only things entangled within the steady heartbeats slipping away from each other, because something perfect like this was just waiting to turn into a dramatic episode of destruction and disaster.

"Nothing," Kristen lies. She laughs, and the day spins away.

.

In hindsight, shooting herself out of the sky through a cannon, with only the help of her so-called best friend, Layne Abeley, wasn't perhaps the best idea that could have come to the mind of the sixteen-year old senior. It _did _add popularity points (which was, of course, of the utmost importance) to her and Layne, and the few girls that flanked the sides of their exclusive clique, but that was only if the stunt went successfully. The probability of that was nearly impossible, but it didn't stop Kristen from trying.

Especially when in the middle of the stunt, the school's strictest teacher was around to witness the entire event, along with the hundreds of security cameras that were not so secretly hidden. Derrick had broken up with her only hours ago (just out of the blue, we can't do this; we should spend time with other people), but no, she wouldn't be thinking about this when high school was almost over, and gosh, it was over—

Layne's manicured hand brushed the flame to the cannon, that somehow fit in the back of Briarwood High and lit the flame, igniting an event that just couldn't be stopped. "Ready, Kristen?" she said, her ruby red lips curling maliciously into a smirk. It was almost as if she had planned something to ruin Kristen's life, but with her innocent picture book blue eyes, Kristen couldn't imagine anybody, least of all Layne, doing something bad.

Suddenly, just a little too late, Kristen remembered that her parents threatened to send her to some sort of dance academy, where she would have to reside for three whole years if she ever was caught again. _Well,_ _she thought to herself, I just can't get in trouble. _Suddenly, her erratic nerves struck, and Kristen wasn't sure if she should give the signal of a thumb's up, or try to struggle out of the top of the cannon before her life was changed, irreversibly. Oblivious to the surrounding tension, she smiled. "Ready, Layne."

A smile lit up her lips, and curved at the corners of her chapped lips as a determined look crossed her face as she pursed her lips, held her hands together, and closed her eyes. Suddenly, everything was black. Kristen was hurling into the air —and she felt like she was invincible, not invisible—, and sparks flew into the air behind her. Everything was to be done in the moment, and maybe it wasn't pretty, and rules would be broken, and friendships would be tested, and huge risks have been taken, but they're small prices to pay for freedom, right? Kristen was flying, and flying, and Kristen falls, letting out a small _oof._

Quickly standing up, and examining the area around her, she noticed that the area around her was empty, which was quite strange. Then again, life was strange. Or maybe, she was just the strange one.

.

The world starts spiraling away after the incident, and Kristen loses track of what's what.

Suddenly, she's lost herself _– all she wants is to be found –_ and there aren't enough bottles of glue or rewind buttons to change back time to fix her broken heart. She sees him sometimes, outside of coffee shops with a new girl around his arm; this time, it's one of her older friends, with her Tiffany box blue eyes and a black leather jacket draped around a thin frame, smiling widely as if they don't have a care in the world, and they don't.

There's always that one boy that you love to hate and hate to love; your heart is breaking as you take steps towards the iron bars, head hanging over the edge, enveloped into tears of joy and stupidity because you'll always be the one to save him in the end, but you'll never be the one for him. It's perhaps your fault, for being too good, for falling for him in the first place, and through murmurs of _iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou_'s, fakeness drips through, seizing saccharine tales, talons and fangs exposed. That night, you see him for who he is, a monster; nonetheless, you've always felt an attachment to people in need, almost as if they were your very own charity cases, that you _loved. _It couldn't work this way, this behind the closet relationship but it just felt so good, almost as if it was a pent-up frustration workout. Your friends start to suspect something, the sexual tension, perhaps, or the way that you look at him when you think that nobody is looking, and they don't describe it as lust anymore —it's more like love. It can't go on any longer; you avoid him for the next three years, heads turned away at ignorance and shame as you embark, running away, really, to a foreign world because seeing him with her at the coffee shop, diamond rings on both hands, is too hard to bear.

_If this was a movie, _Kristen thinks to herself, _everything would be a whole lot different. _Then again, for a typically teenager movie to be produced, there needs to be the focus of a love story.

This isn't a love story, because they're not in love. At least, not anymore.


End file.
